Morvicti Blood (A Morvicti Novel Book 1)

by Lee Swift

He placed the cup on the table. Despite his shaking fingers, he loaded his pipe with fresh tobacco. Sitting in his overstuffed chair enjoying his tea and pipe gave him some solace in defiance of the darkness of the room. The morning sun remained hidden behind his thick drapes. Until recently, they would have been opened at this hour, allowing the beams of light into his residence. He always loved seeing his wooden bookshelves illuminated by the warm glow of dawn. The sparkling specs of dust floating in the air like tiny stars. But the drapes needed to remain closed because of what had transpired recently.

  When Wilson had initially received the post, he gave it little thought. He was familiar with receiving slanderous letters. Too many people thought him a crackpot.

  And when he had learned of the slayings of the young women the next day, he continued to believe the letter to be a hoax, though the news troubled him.

  Nancy Black, a Tory MP, had quite the influence in parliament. Gail Simmons, an actress with flaming red hair, had starred in a dozen films very popular with young adults.

  The normally stiff upper-lipped Londoners were expressing their communal grief for the women very openly. Politeness, reserve and restraint were being tossed aside for public tears and comforting hugs. The whole country had gone utterly mad, especially after the mysterious disappearance of the victims’ bodies from the morgue.

  After the additional detail came out the next day that an officer had been so close to Simmons’s home at the time of her murder, Wilson had realized the message he had received was genuine and contacted the authorities, immediately handing over the post.

  His phone rang, startling him. “Damn reporters.”

  He decided to let Gita Drazek, his domestic, answer it. Thirteen years his junior, the fifty-seven-year-old woman retained the curves and large breasts that he, to this day, never tired of admiring. She was of Polish descent, which he had verified by a sample of her saliva he had required of her several years ago, as he now did with everyone who worked for him. She was not just Polish though; eight percent Spanish. When he had informed her of the findings, she had tossed a dish to the floor in disgust, breaking it into a thousand pieces. Whether coming from her Polish or Spanish ancestors, he loved her fire.

  With the receiver to her ear, Gita stood three steps to his left, with eyes full of worry. “A Mr. John Reeves for you, sir.”

  “He is not a reporter, my dear,” he said, hoping to alleviate her concern. “Mr. Reeves is the young man I interviewed over the phone the other day. Quite the résumé and very ambitious. He seemed genuinely interested in my work.” And since Mr. Reeves’s surname had been the same as his long departed mother’s before she had married, Wilson had offered him a job. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Says it is urgent he speak with you.”

  He motioned for her to hand him the receiver. “Hello, Mr. Reeves.”

  “Dr. Wilson, I just wanted to tell you that I can come in today and give you the saliva and blood sample you requested.”

  “You sound out of breath, young man. What are you doing?”

  “I’m just very anxious. I’m about to have a quick breakfast, and then was hoping to report to your lab. I really am excited about working with you.”

  “There is no rush, Mr. Reeves, as I mentioned to you before.”

  “You told me that I could not start working in the lab until I provided the samples.”

  “That is true. And the lab was closed the day I interviewed you.”

  “I want to get started as soon as possible. Isn’t your lab open today?”

  “It is.” He grinned. Reeves reminded him of a younger version of himself.

  “How long is the turn-around for the samples?”

  “Oh, the samples are just for my research. I don’t need the results of the tests before you begin. Would you like to start today?”

  “Yes, sir. Very much so.”

  “I will inform the lead tech to expect you.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Wilson. I really appreciate this. Thank you so much.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Reeves.” He hung up the phone and turned to Gita. “I wish I had a hundred more like that one.”

  “He did sound eager.”

  “That will be all, Gita.”

  She cleaned off the table next to him, as she did every morning. “You’re not having your second cup of tea? Sir, are you certain?”

  What a question. Certainty of anything during these troubling days was not just unlikely, it was absolutely impossible.

  “Yes, my dear.” He placed his left hand on the stack of newspapers she had brought in with his tea. “Much to digest from the press this morning.”

  Gita shook her head but left without another word, having already shared her dismay with him over the grisly mail and the events that had occurred the past few days since its arrival.

  After Gita’s departure, he turned his attention to the task at hand. At the top of the stack was The Daily Mirror. The headline sent a chill up and down his spine.

  Copycat Serial Killer Rips Through London. Scotland Yard Baffled.

  The editors gave more gruesome details about the state of the young women’s bodies and reminded their readers that the police were still trying to locate the two missing corpses. But, thankfully, The Mirror had not republished the letter.

  My letter. Since the bloody thing made it to the national media, I have not been given a moment’s peace.

  Normally, around noon, he left his home for the café in the boutique hotel down the street to read The Times in its entirety. This week he had cast that practice aside out of necessity. He could not risk some reporter recognizing him and then accosting him with a flood of questions. The only pages he devoured, now sitting at his dining room table, were about the recent murders.

  Again, thankfully, The Times did not reprint his letter today. Unfortunately, he was not so lucky with The Guardian, The Daily Mail, or The Morning Star. Each, once again, gave space to every bloodcurdling syllable in the correspondence, including his full name as the recipient. But the worst recounting came from the buggers at The Daily Telegraph.

  Scotland Yard Brings in Dr. Thomas Wilson for More Questioning.

  What the author of the Telegraph’s article had failed to mention was that Scotland Yard had exonerated him of any connection to the brutal slayings. That kind of dull fact did not sell papers.

  One of the many experts cited in the piece repeated what his peers had stated in some of the other publications. “Whoever wrote Wilson’s cryptic message did have some knowledge of two communications from 1888 that many, like myself, believe came from the original killer. The Saucy Jacky postcard was sent to Scotland Yard on—”

  Wilson stopped reading. He already knew the consensus on his note from the killer—a blending of the postcard and the infamous Dear Boss Letter.

  The experts had books to sell and speaking engagements to schedule. Since Britain was suffering from a horrific case of Ripper fever, it made the marketing task that much easier for the current authorities on the subject.

  He tossed the pile of papers to the floor and looked at his half-empty cup. He had no idea what he should do next. He had granted no interviews to any media outlet, but now he questioned his earlier resolve to stay out of the public frenzy. Left to their own devices, the press would come to their own conclusions.

  “If I give an interview, they will only twist my words,” he said aloud once again, as he had done many times since his life had been turned upside down. But his resolve was crumbling. The offer by Andrea White to appear on the BBC to give his side of the story might be the only way to get through this quagmire.

  He valued his privacy above most things, but that seemed to be a luxury of the past.

  I do not have a choice, do I? He retrieved the card with Ms. White’s contact information that had been hand delivered by a young man from the BBC. Using his mobile, he rang the woman.

  “Hello. Andrea White.”

  “Ms. White, this is Dr. Thomas Wilson
. I would like to take you up on your offer to appear on your program.”

  “Oh, Dr. Wilson, you can’t imagine how thrilled I am to hear you say that. One moment, please.”

  “Certainly.”

  Ms. White’s voice became muffled. He had no doubt that she had placed her hand over the speaker.

  He took the few seconds of silence to puff on his pipe.

  “Are you still there, Doctor?”

  “I am.”

  “Brilliant. I just talked to my producer and they are going to reschedule my interviews for today straight away. Can you be at our studios at half past one this afternoon?”

  “I can.”

  “We will have a list of questions for you to go over before we go on the air. I want to make sure our viewers get your side of the story, Dr. Wilson.”

  “As do I, Ms. White. As do I.”

  She gave him a few more details about what to expect and then they ended the call.

  Gita walked into the room.

  “Would you make sure my gray suit is clean? And could you pick out a shirt and tie that would look good on camera?”

  “All your suits are clean.” Her eyes narrowed, and in an audacious tone, she asked, “Are you having your picture taken?”

  He smiled. “You know me better than that, my dear.”

  “I thought I did.” She shook her head. “I cannot believe you agreed to do that interview on the BBC, but you fooled me. When is it?”

  “I fooled myself, too. This afternoon.”

  “Did you forget about your appointment with Dr. Vickers?”

  “Damn.”

  “You never speak like that. You are spreading yourself too thin. That is the problem.”

  “Both appointments are so important. The mummy exhibit ends today. I cannot cancel with Dr. Vickers. I have been trying to get an appointment with her for weeks. And you know I have to do something to stop the bad press I have been getting. The interview with the woman at the BBC is my only option. The two are a little over an hour apart. With your help I can accomplish both.”

  “Then I will get your things ready, sir. I hope you know what you are doing.”

  “As do I.”

  She left the room.

  He relit his pipe, inhaling the rich, comforting smoke.

  Only Gita came to his private quarters, which were on the top floor of his three-story building. The floor below housed his lab. He allowed less than a dozen research assistants there. The ground floor, which was just below the lab, contained Gita’s flat, storage rooms for the lab, and an office.

  He had left his private quarters only once since the post’s arrival, taking the building’s lift to his beloved laboratory below to run some tests on the crude stationery. Unfortunately, he could not get a DNA sample off the paper. But in his bones he knew that the writer likely had the genetic markers he had been searching for his entire life. Under other circumstances he would have been thrilled. The appetites of every reporter in the city for another serial killer slaying had not been satisfied, and with every tick of his grandfather clock he sensed another murder approaching.

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out the copy of the letter. The authorities had kept the original.

  How many times had he reread the bloody thing? Enough to have memorized it.

  Glad to have a blade in mi hand agan aftr so long, old Boss, happy to hoperate on two last night. Had a laugh at the copper standing across the streat from the gingers throte I slit. I admire your work, Wilson. More to come, dear Boss. More to come.

  Jack

  A quote from one of the experts in The Telegraph’s article continued to trouble him.

  “Wilson is not a member of the media or law enforcement. The man is a geneticist with a mixed reputation. What work of Dr. Wilson does the killer admire? And, more importantly, why would this copycat of Jack the Ripper contact Wilson?”

  Why indeed?

  But deep down he suspected what the answer was, and that terrified him.

  CHAPTER 7

  8:46 AM (Greenwich Mean Time)

  Octavian Drake held the grieving Duchess Lupei in his arms, trying to console her, a fruitless attempt at best. The grand woman’s appearance, normally sheer perfection, was completely disheveled. Her black designer dress was rumpled, and tendrils of her auburn locks were falling out of the tight, clean braid she typically wore. She need not have bothered with makeup, as her tears had wiped most of the foundation away, leaving red splotches that clashed with her hair.

  Duchess Lupei’s only child had been slaughtered by an assassin.

  The congregation silently filed into the most hallowed hall of their people, the ceiling arching forty-feet above their heads. It was the oldest room in the massive subterranean complex.

  The stark chapel was carved out of the bedrock, its stone altar and wooden benches harkening to the ancient history of the Morvicti, when struggles were common and burials too numerous to number. The ornate golden chalice on top of the altar was the only element that contrasted with the cave-like surroundings. The flickering light of the torches along the walls illuminated the women’s mascara-streaked faces and the men’s angry stares, creating a ghastly picture as they slowly made their way in.

  Coronations, abdications, and weddings for the highborn were performed here—and funerals.

  In the crowd were the heads of seven of the eight noblest bloodlines. Duke Vale had sent his condolences, being unable to attend due to an important vote in the United States Senate. Vale was a good friend and close ally. Octavian wished he was here.

  In front of the altar, the caskets of the two young women were open. Great care and discretion had been taken in preparing the women’s bodies for interment. Nancy Black and Gail Simmons, though those were not their true names, were both dressed in high collared tops to hide the fact that their heads had been severed, and gloves to conceal the missing index fingers on each of their left hands.

  The entire society had been shaken by their murders. Nancy, whose true name was Nadia Grollin, and Gail, whose true name was Galene Lupei, were daughters of two who held seats on the Imperial Morvicti Council. It had been centuries since such an overt act of aggression had been leveled against such noble born.

  Octavian suspected that the orthodox fanatics were behind the slayings. If so, they were only using the memory of The Ripper, an abomination in their eyes, to ensure no one discovered their true identities and to further their poisonous beliefs.

  The priest, in the traditional black robes, lifted the chalice above his head. “The drink of everlasting life.”

  The congregation responded, “May we be worthy in the eyes of the Ancestors.”

  Duke Lupei walked behind the altar next to the priest. He ran his fingers through his reddish-blonde hair, clearly trying to gather his thoughts. “Galene, my beautiful daughter…she is…was…” The regal man closed his eyes, trying to compose himself. “She was our treasure, our world. My lovely wife had dreamed of being a mother for so long, and it finally happened thirty-two years ago.”

  As Lupei continued giving his daughter’s eulogy, Octavian’s thoughts drifted. It was his most solemn duty to bring in the murderer to face trial. Was the killer a member of the Brotherhood of Purity? Most likely, yes.

  Where to begin the search?

  Many Morvicti bloodlines had a few secret practitioners of the fanatical orthodox ways, possibly even his own. The hunt would be difficult. Before beginning the search, he needed to be sure that the body of the real Ripper had not been disturbed.

  He had spoken late last night with Lisa Bathry, whose brother was responsible for The Sanctuary of the Forgotten. As a sign of respect from her bloodline, she had helped prepare the bodies of the two women for this service.

  He had told Lisa about his intention to visit Jack’s cell—a disgusting but necessary task—when he returned to London.

  She had been surprised, which was not unexpected. The sanctuary her bloodline cared for housed thousands of bo
dies of the Morvicti, cast-off and without honor. Most found the place abhorrent, as did he.

  “Your will is my duty, Your Majesty. Always.” Lisa had a pleasant smile. Her sandy brown hair framed her lovely oval face perfectly. Her eyes were Bathry blue. She was quite glamorous. “I will be in London in the morning. I’ll contact my brother to let him know to expect you. Anything the Bathrys can do to help bring the killer to justice, we will do.”

  Pounding his fists on the altar, Duke Lupei concluded his eulogy, pulling Octavian back to the present. “It’s wrong my sweet Galene is no longer with her mother and I. All Morvicti suffer because she is gone. Her impact on English popular culture enhanced the global power that has long been held by our people. She helped our cause in so many ways. I will not rest until the one responsible for taking away my sweet Galene is brought to justice.”

  Duke Lupei bowed his head, and then returned to his seat next to his wife on the front bench.

  Duke Grollin took Lupei’s place behind the altar. One of the toughest Morvicti Octavian knew. Years ago, Grollin had been stabbed several times during an orthodox uprising in South Africa. How the man had remained above ground was still a mystery to him.

  “My Nadia was crucial in getting critical policies of the Morvicti pushed through. Yes, there are trusted others in the British Parliament, but they do not have her same voice and influence. Like Duke Lupei and his wife, we only had one child.”

  Octavian thought of his own children. Losing them would utterly destroy him. Gazing down at the beautiful faces of the two young women, a protective instinct for his own burned hot in his veins.

  Someone was slaying the children of Morvicti nobles. Why? How many more would die before the murderer was captured? He had rung his brother Romulus to make sure he was safe, but Rom had not answered. This was alarming to him, because Rom always answered his phone.

  After the attack in Texas on Lucretius’s niece and sister, Cassie and Seraphina, the security measures of the entire family had been heightened. Luke had brought Seraphina’s body back to London and was secretly hiding Cassie at his estate. She wasn’t a pure blood, so Luke didn’t have any other choice. Was the Brotherhood after Rom because of his part in rescuing Cassie?